#?? HAHAH | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

just-some-random-blogger · 4 months ago

Text

Observant

Being the Hand's young, second wife came with a lot of responsibilities, one of which was mellowing the frustrations of your husband.

Otto Hightower x Reader | 1k+ | cw: fem!reader, wife!reader, age difference/age gap, smut (piv, slight dub con, degradation kink, breeding kink, overstimulation, anal fingering, dacryphilia, sadism, praise kink) fluff I guess, typos, etc.

A/N: so i made a poll on what to write and fluff won and this is literally pwp but it has a fluffy ending (???) so it counts HAHAHAH IDK OTTO BRAIN ROT. LOBOTOMY ME IDC I HAVE TO GO TO WORK NOW BYE. A great day to be an otto fucker amirite HAHAHAH cross posted on ao3

You take in a breath the moment you reach the Hand's office. A chill runs down your spine as the night air seeps through your robe and night dress.

In truth, you figured your husband would have appreciated not being interrupted by you, though his pointed instruction otherwise, but there was another truth you answered to: that is, the ache between your legs that your fingers could not quell.

Even now, there was a heat that spread, which only intensified at the thoughts you knew would come to life the moment you knocked on your husband's office door. So you do.

"Who is it?" the deep voice snapped with as much intensity as a rabid dog.

A beat of silence.

Your belly instantly rolls. You rub it as you tighten your robe with one hand. The other, which was holding your lamp, shivers under its weight. You weakly manage to muster, "tis I, my lord."

You stiffen at the sound of heavy footsteps marching your way. A soft gasp leaves your lips when the door swings open and the face of the Lord Hand was glares at you.

"What is it, girl?" Otto hisses, both his hands resting on the sides of the door frame. His presence overwhelms you. His eyes are tired and his jaw is tense.

Yes, you did always feel like some petulant little girl under the scrutiny of your much older husband. You lick your lips and exhale deeply to calm yourself. Simply, you remind him of his own words from earlier today, "tis the hour of the owl."

Lord Hightower is unmoved.

"I've come to fetch you."

A vein at the side of his neck threatens to pop. He pulls away and heads to his desk, "I have much to do, thanks to the fucking king."

You purse your lips at his words, thinking about the said man. Aegon was around your age, if not a bit younger, and at some point you had been friends, until you were promised to his grandfather.

You walk up to Otto's side and he rather instantly makes a spectacle of his abundant papers. He rants heatedly about it for a good moment, before turning to you. His face is worn and his shoulders squared, "I will not waste my time further by explaining this to you. Leave."

Otto places a hand on your bum and pushes you off. You budge, for after all, he was a man much bigger than you, even if no longer in his prime. Your hand darts to his desk to keep yourself upright, and the hand holding your lamp grips it firmly so that it would not slip. You return to your previous position as the man continues with his work.

"L e a v e," he drags out with audible vexation, "now."

"No."

He freezes.

"You will leave," you correct "—this room. Tis the hour of the owl."

Otto turns to you, offended, "you command me?"

You clench you jaw, "you command yourself. I am simply your obedient servant, lord husband."

Your lord husband stands. He towers over you and presses close, so close that he takes your lamp and puts it out, leaving it ignored on his desk, "am I not commanding you now?"

Your heart races when he takes your neck, thumb pressing on your throat as he rubs it. He can feel your raging pulse and it excites him, but not as much as your next words do, "you are you unkind when you are exhausted."

"To whom?"

"To everyone," you mutter, "you must retire."

Otto releases your neck and heads for the door, "I will not."

Your brows furrow as you watch him storm off.

You realize only what he meant after following him into your shared chambers.

He grabs you from behind and sinks his face into your neck. You feel his beard against your skin and his hands eagerly clawing down your body. He pushes you into bed and you manage to look over your shoulder for the few seconds as he undoes his breeches. Not a second later, he pushes you on the sheets and pulls your skirt up.

You whimper into the cushion, bringing your face to the side as he rests his weight between your shoulders. He clenches his jaw as he grabs your hip. You obediently shift on your knees and gasp when he rubs his groin into yours. He sighs out a string of profanities when he feels your wetness. He pulls back and looks at the softness of your thighs, inspecting the pooling lust on your cunt. He rubs your clit, "my cherubic wife, so ready to be taken by her aged husband."

Your belly trembles as he uses your warm slick to flick your sensitive nub, leaving you to do nothing but curl your toes and whine into the sheets.

"Body so eager to be molded by my cock," he mutters. He slowly sinks two fingers into your weeping folds. He stretches you with his fingers and sinks deep, relishing the warm stickiness coating his digits, "so pretty like this. More so with my seed mixed with your arousal, dripping down your puckered cunt."

He continues to serve you with his fingers until pressure builds in your stomach. Then, with no warning and little care, Otto replaces his fingers with his hardened cock and fucks you thoroughly from behind. The hand he had by your shoulder blades move up and tangle into your hair. His other hand tirelessly works on your clit, expertly rubbing them that your body writhes under his weight.

You are trapped beneath him, however. He need only push on your head and lock your legs with his; you can do nothing else to do but take his cock and his fingers.

The sound of wet slapping skin and your uncontrollable whimpers dampen out the creaking and thudding of your bed against the stone wall. Quickly, your breathing begins to grow strained and Otto gives no indication of slowing, especially not when he merited a scream from your lips from the pleasure building hotly in your stomach.

"Otto, Otto-" you begin to whine, nails ripping into the sheets, "w-wait— I-"

He furrows his brows at your words, offended that you would instruct him grant your reprieve. Just as he felt your slick building against his clothes? Even if he wanted to stop to catch his breath, he would not.

Alas, mortal man still was he, and his plowing had to slow. Slow, not stop. Though his arm began to tire, his fingers did not relent their assault on your swollen clit. He made up for any delays with slower but harsh flicks of his hip.

Your peak caught both of you off guard, and you came around his cock with a ghastly noise that made him stab your womb roughly in surprise. He stops moving altogether soon after.

Upon realizing the absolute bliss that seized your form, he puts all of his focus on your clit, wanting nothing but to make you shake and tighten around his wet cock as much as he possibly can.

The wind is knocked out of your lungs and your eyes water at the intensity of it all. Soon, it was all too much for you. It was all far too much, and yet he did not stop.

"Otto," your voice is hoarse as you sob into the dampened sheets, dampened with your tears and saliva.

He does not acknowledge you at all. He continues rubbing your pulsing clit with his fingers no matter how much your belly shook or your thighs trembled. He adores your mousy noises. He pulls your head back by your hair and slowly begins to thrust into you until the bed begins to creak at the intensity again.

It's too much, and the noise that rips out of you is nothing but further indication of this.

Your body struggles beneath him, your parted thighs that turned to putty were now shifting frantically in the hope to be free of this overwhelming sensation. You clench and unclench around him, hips pushing forward and back in an attempt to break away, but it, in fact, only makes your heady husband double down on his efforts to keep you in place.

His fingers only then finally leave your abused clit, but any form of recuperation you could get is stolen by the way both his veiny hands grip your hips and his manhood invades your cunny, intent on staking its claim.

He grunts as he looks down at your helpless form. He does nothing but use you for his pleasure and he cares little of whether or not your pretty pussy will tighten and quiver around him again.

Otto rubs your bum then coats his thumb with your slick before pushing it into your vacant rear, enough to hook into you and to make you squeal.

Soon enough, he can feel his legs ache and his belly burn. He ignores the former and his energy is sustained by the promise of filling his shaking bride with his come and watching it drip out of her.

Otto is silent while you noisily protest beneath him. Just as he begins to feel his balls tighten, he feels your cunt squeeze him again. Your neck strains as he bends down to lean into you, "take it, come slut. You know want you want to."

"S't-too much," you whine, tears rolling down your face.

Otto could not care less and begins to rub your clit again. You scream out in response and it's enough to make him reach his peak.

He slams into you with no steady tempo. He cares only for the pleasure raging on his cock and wants only to empty his balls into his warm, raggedly bride. As he does just that, feeling come and sweat drip from your garment to the sheet, he takes a few more thrusts, shallow ones where he does not move out of you very much, to ensure he thoroughly stuff all his heated lust into you.

And ever the dutiful husband, he plays with your clit for as long as it takes to make you scream and spasm into another pretty peak.

Your nose is running as you sob, but the twist of your expression tells him that you were enjoying every second of it. He laughs, deeply, contentedly, pinning you against him and the bed. He doesn't listen to you until he is more than assured every bit of pleasure is wrung out of your darling body.

You begin to whine again like the tearful babe you were. You whisper an exhausted plea, "please, no more, Otto. Please."

He shushes you and pinches your clit, just to see you flinch and hear you beg some more. And beg you do, "n-no more, please," through sniffles.

He grips your jaw and kisses your salty cheek. He pulls you both to your sides, unwilling to pull out just yet. He has to ascertain his seed catches in your snug womb. He massages your breasts, imagining them get bigger for the babe he fucked into you. He pinches your nipples, making you whine again.

"O-Otto-"

"All is well, wife," he mutters, releasing his hold, only because you pushed his hand away. You lean into him as he rubs your belly. He rubs your nape with his nose, "good girl."

#otto hightower #otto hightower smut #house of the dragon smut #house of the dragon fanfic #otto smut #otto fic #otto hightower fic #otto hightower fanfic #otto hightower fluff #hotd smut #hightower smut #hotd fanfic #otto fucker #HAHAH #im so down bad for this man #i need a lobotomy #lobotomy #otto fluff

298 notes · View notes

dreamdragonkadia · 1 month ago

Note

I LOVED the Xaden kisses one so i was wondering if you could do the same for liam ? there just isn’t enough content about my boy liam 😔

Yes! Thank you so much for waiting—my brain decided to take a little vacation there for a minute.

The Temple Kiss

This kiss is so soft it might as well be a feather. Liam isn’t afraid of pressing his lips to your temple, and he does so often, with the ease of someone who’s made a habit of loving you. He does it when you’re sitting together, his chin tucked just over your shoulder as if you were always meant to fit there. It’s his way of sneaking affection into quiet, unassuming moments—when the two of you are watching a sunset in comfortable silence or sharing stories late into the night.

It’s a kiss that lingers without lingering, an unspoken “I see you. I’m here.”

And when you turn to him afterward, smiling because he has to know what he’s done, Liam only shrugs with that familiar, lopsided grin. “What?” he says, pretending innocence, though you both know better. He wasn’t trying to be charming—but he absolutely was.

And it always works.

The “I Missed You” Kiss

These kisses carry a quiet urgency, born not of desperation but of a deep-rooted fear that Liam doesn’t often speak aloud—the fear of losing you. Whenever you’re gone, no matter how long, there’s always a small part of him that aches with the thought of you not coming back.

So when he sees you again, he doesn’t say a word. He just pulls you in—one arm wrapping tightly around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, the other hand tilting your chin up so you’re right there, just for him. Liam kisses you like you’ve been apart for years, a kiss that’s deep but unhurried, consuming but never overwhelming. It’s a silent “You’re mine, and I need you to know that.”

When he finally pulls back, it’s only because he has to, and he’s breathless—just a little. That grin tugs at his lips, the kind that makes your heart stutter, and he murmurs softly, “You’re back.”

You realize he missed you just as much as you missed him—if not more.

The Laughing Kiss

Two souls that know how to laugh with each other—that’s what you are. It only takes one look, one mischievous glint in Liam’s eyes, to send you both over the edge, cracking up over something no one else would find nearly as funny.

This kiss? It’s clumsy and unplanned—two smiles colliding in the middle of your laughter, as if neither of you could resist the pull of being this close. You’re laughing too hard to take it seriously, and Liam’s just as guilty, pressing fleeting, scattered kisses wherever they’ll land—your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your lips—between breathless chuckles.

“Hold still,” he grumbles playfully, though his hands on your face are warm, and his grin betrays him every time.

It’s the kind of kiss that happens after teasing remarks and inside jokes that send you both into fits of giggles, the kind that leaves your ribs aching in the best way. When you finally catch your breath, you glance at him—his shoulders still shaking with laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corners—and you can’t help but think he’s just as beautiful when he laughs.

Maybe even more so.

The Hand Kiss

Sometimes Liam is dramatic about it—grabbing your hand with all the exaggerated flair of a storybook hero. He’ll bow low, eyes twinkling with mischief, lips grazing your knuckles as though he’s swearing fealty to you in front of an invisible court. “M’lady,” he’ll quip, voice teasing, because he knows exactly what he’s doing.

But other times, it’s quieter. His lips brush your knuckles absentmindedly, a fleeting moment of softness when the world falls away. It happens when you’re sitting side by side, his fingers curled around yours, and he’ll lift your hand to his mouth as if it’s second nature—like leaving a kiss there is a routine as familiar to him as breathing. Almost a need.

There’s no grand declaration, no showmanship in those moments. It’s Liam’s way of reminding himself that you’re real, that you’re here, and that he’s lucky enough to hold you.

And in those quiet kisses—whether playful or tender—there’s an unspoken truth: Liam admires you. Deeply, wordlessly, in ways you might not always see.

Because sometimes love is loud. And sometimes it’s the gentle press of lips against skin—soft, and constant.

The “Good Morning” Kiss

It’s soft and unhurried, the kind of kiss that feels as lazy as the first rays of morning light spilling through the room. Liam’s voice is rough with sleep, a low, groggy “Morning, you,” whispered against your skin. His touch is languid, fingers tracing gentle lines as he pulls you closer beneath the blankets, like even the thought of letting go is unthinkable.

Sometimes it’s a kiss to your cheek, his lips curling into the faintest smile when you groan in protest at being woken up. Other times, it’s a deliberate kiss to your lips, meant to rouse you with the soft press of affection—and the faintest edge of something more. He’ll chuckle, voice still gravelly, when you blink up at him, all sleepy and dazed. “Couldn’t help myself,” he murmurs, because apparently Liam Mairi’s idea of a perfect morning is showering you with love before you’ve even said a word.

And the way he looks at you after—soft eyes, easy grin, like nothing else matters—makes you certain of one thing: waking up next to you really is the best part of his day.

Honestly? You’d argue it’s the best part of yours, too.

The “I Love You” Kiss

There’s no mistaking it—this kiss is different. It’s deep, passionate, and it leaves you breathless, like Liam’s pouring every unsaid word he’s ever felt into it. His hands cup your face, rough palms warm against your skin, holding you as though you’re something irreplaceable.

The first kiss is a promise. It’s sure, like he’s trying to anchor you to the truth of his feelings. But it’s never just one kiss. He pulls back only briefly, just long enough for his gaze to catch yours—a flicker of something raw and real—and then he’s kissing you again, deeper this time. It’s not rushed, but there’s a need to it, an urgency that says “I love you. I need you to know that I really, really do.”

Time seems to slow, the world falling silent around you, until finally, Liam pulls back, his forehead resting lightly against yours. His voice is barely more than a whisper, rough with sincerity. “You know that, right? How much I love you?”

And the way he says it leaves no room for doubt. It’s love you can feel in every kiss, every lingering touch—firm, consuming, and absolutely real.

#✨️by yours truly✨️#fourth wing #fw #fourth wing x reader #liam mairi #liam mairi x reader #what a dork #hahah #the empyrean #the empyrean series

212 notes · View notes